


tragic as a slaughterhouse.

by doctorkaitlyn



Series: murder was the case that they gave me. [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Blood and Gore, Character Death, Established Relationship, M/M, Platonic Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Stabbing, Stalking, Strangulation, Unhappy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-18
Updated: 2017-03-18
Packaged: 2018-10-07 06:58:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10354683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctorkaitlyn/pseuds/doctorkaitlyn
Summary: Dean has been running from Castiel for six months.He's been running since Barstow, when he woke to Castiel's weight on his back and his knife in his shoulder. He's criss-crossed the country half a dozen times since then, hunted down monster after monster with Sam, but in all that time, he hasn't killed a single human.So when Cas finally catches up to him and promises to give Dean a present, the burning itch flooding Dean's body demands that he say yes.Except the present comes with a catch. A catch that Dean is unable to accept.In an abandoned warehouse in South Dakota, with Castiel before him and a trussed up boy behind him, Dean makes what may be the most important decision of his life.





	

**Author's Note:**

> this really wasn't supposed to take this long to write. anyways, reading the other two parts in the series is pretty important to make any sense of this. 
> 
> I can't stress this enough: please, _please_ heed the tags.
> 
> title from [If I Was Your Vampire](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o3c4lc3Ea4Y) by Marilyn Manson.

“You ever going to answer that?” 

They’re about to cross over the border into Iowa when Dean’s newest burner phone rings for the third time that night. Just like the other times, he lets it ring itself out. He keeps his gaze forward, peering into the inky darkness surrounding the Impala on all sides, resolutely ignoring the urge to even glance over at the phone. He knows who’s calling, knows it like he knows his own name. 

“No,” he says firmly, gripping the wheel a little tighter. “Just some damn telemarketer.”

“Huh,” Sam mutters before leaning his head back against the window. He’s been dozing off and on since night fell, only stirring whenever the phone rings. One of his ribs is bruised, maybe even cracked, and there’s still dried blood clotted to a cut above his eyebrow. Dean isn’t in much better shape; every time he shifts, he can feel the gash on the outside of his left thigh twinge, and his left ankle is brutally twisted. 

Fucking skinwalkers. 

The roads are empty at this time of night, and he urges the Impala a little faster over the twisting, lurching road. There are tiny lights flickering on his left, coming from the clusters of windmills dotting the expansive fields. 

Just when he starts to get used to the silence, the phone rings again.

This time, before the sound can wake Sam again, Dean flips the phone open and shut, severing the call. He rolls down the window and tosses the phone as hard as he can, sailing it towards the blinking lights in the distance. 

He stops at the next twenty-four hour convenience store they pass and picks up a bag of beef jerky and a burner phone. 

It’s only a matter of time before that phone starts ringing too.

&.

He hasn’t seen Castiel in six months.

He hasn’t seen Castiel since Barstow, where he woke up to weight on his back and a knife dragging through his shoulder, where he’d felt actual _fear_ towards another human being for the first time in years.

He’s crisscrossed the country half a dozen times since then. Him and Sam have hunted down werewolves and demons, wendigos and spirits, spent nights in supposedly haunted cabins that contained nothing more interesting than a rotting raccoon. He’s burned dozens of clothes that were too saturated with blood to keep and stitched up more wounds than he cares to think about. 

He’s spent hours upon hours watching the news whenever they have a television with a decent connection. Instead of using Sam’s laptop for porn, he uses it to search the internet for any articles about Castiel, any articles about the feds apprehending a serial killer with dark hair and cold blue eyes. 

He’d assumed that it was only a matter of time before he found Cas’ face staring back at him from a website or newspaper. The last time they’d been together, Castiel’s human facade hadn’t been so much slipping as it was _cracking_ , revealing the shadowy aberration underneath. 

Dean has spent almost his entire life trying to keep his human mask tucked firmly on his face, making sure every hint of his nasty little nighttime hobby is sequestered from the rest of his life, from Sam. 

Castiel’s sloppiness isn’t just offensive to him; it’s _dangerous._

He hasn’t seen Castiel for six months. 

He has not killed a single human being. 

He’s wanted to; he’s wanted to _badly_ , more than he’s ever wanted anything in his life. The itch is constant, thrumming just below the surface of his skin. He’s been sleeping even less than usual, consuming more tar-thick coffee than is healthy even by his own lax standards, spending too many nights after a hunt in bed with a stranger or staring at the thin drapes over a motel room window, waiting for a shadow to fall across it. 

He hasn’t seen Castiel for six months. 

But he’s certain that Cas has seen him.

&.

After nine hours of driving, they finally pull up to Bobby’s place. It’s just as much of a mess as the last time they stopped by; there are vehicle parts spilling into the front yard, the grass is shin-high, and the air stinks of burning rubber. Dean noses the Impala up behind Bobby’s tow truck and barely manages to slam on the brakes before he bumps into the back. Even though the sun is high overhead, sweltering on the back of his neck as he slides out of the front seat, he knows that if he laid down in the dirt driveway, he’d be asleep within minutes. Sam had offered to drive four hours ago (or maybe it’d been five), but Dean had brushed him off. He’d needed the road, needed to concentrate on driving so he didn’t dwell on the burner phone resting in a field somewhere in Iowa, ringing over and over until the battery died.

Sam has some lore questions that he wants to run by Bobby, but since it looks like he isn’t home (might not be home for weeks), Dean has one plan and one plan only. 

Sleep. 

He drops his duffel bag in the living room, grabs a beer from Bobby’s fridge and trudges out into the salvage yard. He has to squint against the glare coming off the hundreds of cars sandwiched together, but he eventually finds one that hasn’t been compacted yet. It’s another Impala, a newer model, painted a garish metallic green that sparkles under the sun. It looks so unlike his baby that he can’t help but laugh as he pops the top off his beer and flicks it into the dust. 

He pulls open all the doors to let the car air out before he settles to the ground, back braced against the wheel well. There’s some shallow dents dotting the car’s body, nothing that couldn’t be fixed with a sledgehammer, and as Dean takes his first pull on the beer, he decides to give it a shot once he wakes up. 

Maybe it’ll distract him from the itch pulsing in his very bones. 

He never gets around to taking a second sip of his beer; he passes out in the tiny patch of shade being thrown by the car, head resting against the warm metal. 

When he wakes up, his face is sunburned, beer has soaked into his pants, and Castiel is astride his lap with a knife to his throat. 

“Finally!” he crows, too-wide grin splitting his face so quickly that Dean expects to see the skin snap and peel back. “I didn’t think you’d ever wake up.” 

“Hey, Cas,” Dean replies, a sour wave of adrenaline flooding his system. “It’s been awhile.” The words sound weak even to his own ears, and Castiel’s reaction makes it clear that he doesn’t approve. He cocks his head to the side and presses the knife harder into Dean’s neck, just hard enough for a trickle of blood to slide down into his collar. 

“I called,” he sighs, almost wistfully. “You never answered.” Dean has no proper answer to that, no rebuttal that won’t piss Cas off further, so he simply shrugs and squares his jaw. 

“So, what are you doing here?” he asks, wondering if he’d be able to push Cas away without getting his throat cut. “Just couldn’t stop yourself from taking in the sights of South Dakota?” Castiel laughs, the sound somehow both high and low at the same time, sharp enough to dig into Dean’s brain like a power drill. 

“I could care less about this state. About this entire country, really,” he says. “But you’re here, and you’re finally away from Sammy.” He tilts his head the other way and pulls the knife back until the point is pressed firmly against Dean’s jugular, and Dean grits his teeth behind his lips. 

He still hates the way Castiel says Sam’s name, like he’s turning it over in his mouth to see how it tastes. There’s an extra edge to it this time, and Dean glances in the direction of Bobby’s house, obscured by the stacks of cars. An image flashes through his mind: Sam lying on the scratched linoleum of Bobby’s kitchen, taken off guard, blood pooling around his head or gushing forth from his throat. 

It’s not that Sam can’t defend himself, but Dean doesn’t know if there’s any real way _to_ defend yourself against Castiel. Not without prior warning, at least.

“Sam has nothing to do with this,” Dean says, and the adrenaline coursing through him shifts into bitter anger. 

He’s done with sitting on his ass, waiting for Cas to finish toying with him.

He wraps his fingers around Castiel’s wrist, yanks the knife away from his throat, and slams the heel of his other hand into Castiel’s sternum. Cas goes sprawling backwards, lands on Dean’s outstretched legs before rolling off, reaching for his chest. As he tries to suck in air, he glares up at Dean, who gets to his feet and yanks a switchblade from the pocket of his jeans. It won’t do much against the serrated knife Cas is still holding, but it’s better than nothing. 

“Cas, what do you want?” he asks, moving so that the warm metal of the car is no longer a wall at his back. “What are you actually doing here?” Cas wheezes through his teeth as he stands up, absently twirling his knife with practiced ease.

“I’ve been _bored_ ,” he hisses, brushing off his trench coat. Even it seems to have deteriorated in the last few months; most of the buttons are hanging on by wisps of thread, the hem is splattered with dark spots that might be mud or blood, and there’s a rip in the shoulder. “Don’t you remember Barstow? Don’t you remember how _fun_ it was?” Castiel says fun like it’s the dirtiest of words, like he’s trying to hurl it at Dean and lodge it in his throat. “It’s not the same without you.” 

As much as he’s tried to deny it to himself over the past six months, Dean feels the same way. Killing seems to lack purpose when Castiel isn’t there beside him, spurring him on, thrusting his hands into the same warm blood as Dean’s. 

“I just kept calling and calling,” Cas continues, sighing dramatically. “And you never picked up. I had _presents_ for you, Dean. I’m starting to get sick of sneaking into your hotel rooms and stealing your number.” 

“Well, here I am,” Dean says, holding his arms out to the side, displaying himself like a trophy waiting to be won. “You’ve got my attention, Cas.” 

“Oh, how I’ve missed the way you say my name,” Castiel murmurs. He doesn’t put his knife away, but he lowers it slightly, taking a step back from full-on attack mode. He takes three steps, halving the space between them, delirious grin growing larger with each step. He tilts his head to the side and narrows his eyes, like he’s studying a dissected creature under a microscope. After a moment of apparent internal debate, he shrugs, tucks his knife back inside his coat, and fully erases the space between them by crushing his lips against Dean’s and pushing him backwards until his back slams into the side of the junker that he was napping against. 

Dean doesn’t drop his own blade. He doesn’t even loosen his grip around the worn handle. But he uses his free hand to grab a hank of Castiel’s hair and tugs, _hard_. Castiel hums contently and sinks his teeth into Dean’s bottom lip hard enough for blood to flood their mouths. He shoves one of his legs between Dean’s and viciously presses his hips against Dean’s, like he’s trying to shove him right through the metal of the car. Dean gives as good as he gets, adjusts his grip on his knife so that he can curl his fingers around Castiel’s waist. The knife handle ends up sandwiched between the palm of his hand and Castiel’s hip. All it would take is a flick of Dean’s wrist for the blade to dig a deep gouge down the outside of Castiel’s thigh. Maybe, if he was lucky, he’d be able to get all the way to the knee before Cas noticed and retaliated. 

Before he can make a decision one way or the other, Cas pulls away with a final tug on Dean’s torn, bleeding lip. 

“Are you going to go running off again?” he asks, resting one palm against Dean’s cheek and digging his fingers into Dean’s skin like he’s trying to wrap them around Dean’s jawbone. “I’m growing tired of running after you.” 

“I’m not going to run,” Dean answers, although if he was anything close to smart, he would do just that, find some corner of the Earth where Cas couldn't get his hooks into him again; the man is unspooling like a broken cassette, and the chance of his madness infecting Dean is too goddamn high. 

But he _does_ need to kill soon. It’s been too long; the itch is worming underneath his skin like bugs, demanding warm blood and gore and the sound of someone’s final gasped breath.

Maybe, if Cas is by his side, he’ll be able to actually _enjoy_ the kill, rather than just scratch the itch. 

“Do you have a present for me here?” he asks, twisting his jaw out of Castiel’s bone-crushing grip. Cas grins and nods, head bobbing loosely, like a marionette with cut strings.

“Oh, yes,” he whispers, eyes lighting up. “I’ll have him all wrapped up for you tonight.” 

“Where?” Dean asks. Castiel laughs, the sound almost _rattling_ in his chest, and reaches into the pocket of his trench coat. Dean’s entire body tenses in preparation for a blade sliding into his skin, and he tightens his fingers on the grip of his knife. However, what Cas pulls from his pocket isn’t a weapon; it’s a crappy flip phone, nearly identical to the dozens Dean has gone through in his life. 

Nearly identical to the one resting in a field in Iowa. 

“Don’t get rid of this one,” Cas says, pressing it firmly into Dean’s free hand. “I’ll know if you do. Your present will be ready in a few hours. Rest up. You’re going to need _all_ of your energy.” A low chuckle slips from his bitten lips, and he pats the side of Dean’s face once, almost hard enough to be a slap, before he turns on his heel and walks away, long strides quickly carrying him out of Dean’s sight behind a row of half-crushed cars. 

For a few moments, Dean thinks about catching up with him. He thinks about silently making his way through the rows, using his knowledge of them to get ahead of Cas. He thinks of lying in wait until Cas walks in front of him. 

He thinks about slitting Castiel’s throat and ending this thing, right now, before he ends up further down the goddamn rabbit hole. 

But the part of him that wants to bury Castiel in the salvage yard is overruled by his _need_ to kill. He needs to soak his hands in blood, needs to do it under some kind of controlled circumstances, before he fucks up and makes a mistake on his own. 

Besides, despite Castiel’s increasingly tenuous grasp on reality, Dean has to admit, he’s curious to see what kind of present Cas has secured for him. 

So, instead of venturing further into the stacks of cars, he heads back towards the house, keeping one ear open for the sound of footsteps behind him.

Cas may say he has a present for him, but with the way his mind seems to be going, Dean wouldn’t put it past him to abruptly change his mind. 

When he gets back to the house, Sam is passed out on the sagging couch in the living room, long limbs sprawled every which way. He’s snoring loudly, and he doesn’t even twitch when Dean opens the fridge to grab another beer. 

Dean can’t remember the last time he saw Sam sleep that soundly. 

He’s more than a little envious. 

He takes his beer upstairs to one of Bobby’s spare bedrooms. Now that his adrenaline has worn off (for the most part), his exhaustion is back in full force. By the time he reaches the bedroom, he’s nearly stumbling, and he pulls open the tab on the beer and chugs it as he ambles towards the bed, cold liquid dripping from the corners of his mouth. When half the can is drained, he drops it onto the wobbling nightstand and collapses on top of the covers, just barely remembering to kick his boots off. 

He has no idea what excuse he’s going to run by Sam tonight. He doesn’t even know if leaving is a good idea, but he knows that staying would be worse, because if he stays, Cas will come back and claim his pound of flesh. More than likely, that pound of flesh would come from Sam. 

Dean would rather die than let that happen.

&.

When he wakes up, the light filtering through the curtains is dim and grey. The inside of his mouth tastes like a dumpster, and he stumbles into the bathroom to brush his teeth before he throws up.

It’s only after he returns to the bedroom that he realizes that his new phone is vibrating in his pocket. 

“Dean!” Cas says as soon as he answers. “I was starting to think you’d ran after all.” 

“You told me to rest up,” Dean retorts. “Man’s gotta sleep sometime, you know.” 

“Well, you’ve slept long enough. Your present is ready. Do you want it?” 

“ _Yes_.” The word slips out before Dean can help himself, and he immediately wants to take it back, wants to punch himself for sounding so goddamn eager. Any hope that Cas didn’t hear him vanishes as soon as Cas answers. 

“You sound desperate, Dean. How long has it been? How long have you been holding off, trying to be a better person? Since Barstow?” 

“Shut the hell up,” Dean snaps, fingers of his free hand tightening into his palm. Cas just laughs again. 

“Impressive. I can’t say the same. I left one in every town you stopped in between Barstow and here. I was hoping you’d notice, but I guess I had too much faith in you. Shame.”

The phone casing creaks as Dean squeezes it tightly. He knows that their bizarre mating ritual, the dance they’ve been doing back and forth for months now, always carries an element of risk to it, but Dean has always done everything in his power to manage that risk, to keep Castiel separated from the rest of his life, from Sam. 

What Castiel has done is more than reckless. It’s asking, _begging_ , for someone to get caught, and if the authorities are smart, there’s a chance that person could be Dean. 

But while Dean is rightfully pissed about it, his anger is muted by the promise of a kill, of finally quenching the urge that’s been stealing his focus for weeks. After the kill, once they’ve disposed of everything properly, once there’s no chance that anything can be traced back to him, he’ll feel the anger fully. 

But first, he needs to feel fresh blood on his hands. 

“Dean? Did I hit a sore spot?”

“Where am I meeting you?” Dean asks, completely ignoring the rest of Castiel’s sentence. If Cas notices, he doesn’t mention it; he simply gives Dean an address for a warehouse a few towns over, which Dean scrawls down onto a crumpled receipt from the pocket of his jeans. 

“I’ll be waiting,” Cas says. “Make sure you bring _all_ of your toys. This is going to be a fun night, Dean. We have much time to make up for.”

“I’ll be there soon,” Dean says, hanging up before Cas can say anything else to piss him off. 

He has a few spare sets of clothes hanging in the closet, and he quickly changes into something that stinks less like travel sweat and spilled beer before heading downstairs. Sam is awake, sitting upright on the couch with his laptop on the coffee table and a beer within close reach. The television is playing an old black and white movie, but if the slight frown and crease of Sam’s brow is anything to go by, he’s combing the news, looking for a new case.

“Hey,” Dean says, drawing Sam’s gaze from the computer screen. “I’m heading out for a few hours.”

“You find a case?” Sam asks, and Dean groans theatrically. 

“You serious, man? I’m on vacation. I’m going on a date.”

“Really,” Sam says flatly. “A date. With who?” 

“Don’t know yet,” Dean replies with an easy shrug, heading towards the door. “I’ll find out when I get there. Don’t wait up.” 

Lying to Sam has become entirely second nature to him, and at any other time, that knowledge would rot away at his insides. 

But, for the time being, the only thing that matters is Cas’ present.

&.

For the entirety of the half hour drive, Dean shakes like a junkie going through withdrawal. His fingers jitter against the steering wheel, he bounces his leg to the tune of the Zeppelin song blaring from the speakers, he slaps his free hand against the Impala’s driver side door. He tries not to go over the speed limit, tries not to draw any attention to himself, but the itch coursing through his veins means that he catches himself flooring it more often than not.

He finds the warehouse on the outskirts of the small town. It’s nearly a mirror image of the place they left behind in Barstow. Overlapping scrawls of graffiti cover the concrete facade, some of the windows are no more than gaping holes, and snarls of weeds grow right up to the edge of the building. There’s a gravel driveway that looks like it hasn’t been maintained in years leading around the rear of the building, and Dean turns into it, loose rocks flying out from underneath the tires. He cuts his speed drastically and inches forward, keeping one eye turned towards the rear view mirror in case there’s anybody drives by, anybody that might be able to identify him later.

Thankfully, there’s no one. 

The driveway turns the corner of the building and ends in a small parking lot lined with a chain link fence that’s rapidly rusting and being reclaimed by the environment. The most boring car Dean has ever seen, a beige sedan with mud splattered around the wheel wells and the rear bumper, is parked against the back wall of the building. There’s a thick, metal door a few feet away from it, gaping open. 

Dean is surprised that there isn’t a damn bow perched on the door or a trail of rose petals (or blood) leading inside.

He takes the time to back the Impala up, nose pointing towards the trail leading back towards the road, and turns it off. Without the rumble of the engine, the night feels too silent. There’s no nearby vehicle traffic, no wind, not even any birds chirping in the trees. 

The place is isolated, that’s for sure, but if the present makes any sound, it might carry for miles. 

He hopes that Cas has duct tape. 

He slides out of the car, pops the trunk open, and grabs his bag from underneath the false bottom. It’s small, but heavy; he didn’t bring much, but he brought reliable tools. As an afterthought, he grabs a coil of rope, picked up at the last hardware store they stopped at. 

He doesn’t know what they’ll use it for, or if they’ll use it at all, but better to have it than not. 

He slips on gloves last, so that he can pull the door of the warehouse closed without leaving fingerprints behind. It closes with a booming clang, leaving Dean in a small, darkened room that might have been an office at some point. There’s another door opposite him that leads into a room far larger and far brighter, presumably the warehouse’s main space. He wastes no time in entering, bag hitting his leg with every step he takes, skin crawling in anticipation. 

The room is absolutely massive, wide open from one wall to the other, separated only by concrete pillars that march across the space in three evenly spaced rows. It’s dotted with battery powered lamps that splash the room with glaring lights and huge shadows. Castiel is nowhere within sight, but Dean can hear him humming tunelessly, the sound rising and falling at random intervals. 

“Cas?” he yells, boots crunching over broken glass and crumbled concrete. His voice echoes off each wall, and Cas’ humming only grows louder. “I’m here.”

“Dean!” Cas pops out from behind a pillar, malicious grin spread across his face. He’s discarded his trench coat, and the sleeves of his button-up are rolled up to his elbows. His corded forearms are covered in battle wounds. Bruises and scratch marks march up and down them, and there’s a deep bite mark on his wrist, vivid red in a way that screams infection. 

“Your arm looks a bit rough,” Dean says. Cas shrugs theatrically, bringing his arm up to his eyes and examining it like it’s the first time he’s noticed the wound.

“Could be worse,” he says, poking at the bite before dropping his arm. “She only got me once. I pulled her teeth out after that.” His grin widens further as he grabs Dean’s forearm and starts tugging him across the room. “C’mon. He’s waiting for you. I haven’t touched him yet, but it was so _hard_ to resist. He’s very pretty.” Dropping Dean’s arm, he shoves him around a pillar, and Dean has to twist around, boots sliding on the tarp that’s been spread out on the floor, to get a look at the person, the _present_ , secured to the pillar with row after row of bright yellow rope. 

While the itch doesn’t disappear from underneath Dean’s skin, his anticipation dies in one fell swoop. 

If Dean thinks objectively, he can see where Cas is coming from; the boy (because that’s what he is, a boy, no older than eighteen) _is_ pretty, in a certain way. He’s willowy, with long arms and legs sticking out of a black t-shirt and basketball shorts. His light brown hair looks like it was cut by someone who only had a slight idea of what they were doing, and there’s clusters of acne clinging to his tan cheeks. There’s duct tape strapped across his mouth and terror filling his pond-green eyes. 

The whole picture should be the prettiest thing Dean has seen in months. 

But the boy is the absolute spitting image of seventeen year old Sammy. 

“Cas,” he says slowly, fingers tightening around the rough strap of his bag, “what the fuck is this?” He turns around and puts his back to the boy, because the longer he looks at him, the more his stomach sinks like a stone. Cas is mere inches behind him, close enough that he could probably rush forward and sink his teeth into Dean’s face before Dean could stop him. He’s _leering_ at Dean, eyes huge and wide, pupils as black as an abyss. 

“What do you mean?” he asks, head tilting to the side. “This is your present, Dean. I thought you were _excited_ for it.” The last few words come out in the vicious hiss of a rattlesnake waiting to strike. 

“I was,” he admits and, behind him, a soft whimper makes it through the duct tape covering the boy’s mouth. “But that was before I knew that your present was a copycat of my damn brother!” Cas hums again and leans forward until his chin is brushing against Dean’s shoulder. 

“He _does_ look like Sam, doesn’t he.” When Cas steps back, he sighs and shakes his head, like he’s disappointed with a small child. 

“I had more faith in you,” he says, sliding his arms behind his back, like a soldier at rest. “I thought you would appreciate this. I thought you’d like taking the first step towards cutting the cord.” 

“The cord between me and Sam, you mean?” Dean asks, keeping both eyes on Cas, who is rocking forward and back on the balls of his feet. For the first time, it hits Dean how unprepared he is for this; the only weapon he has within reach is his switchblade, tucked into the back pocket of his jeans, and in the time it would take him to grab it and flick it open, Cas would be on him. 

“That’s the one. Think about it, Dean. We could be partners. _Real_ partners, without a ball and chain weighing us down.” 

“Sam is _not_ a ball and chain,” Dean growls, dropping his bag to the ground. 

“He is to me.” Castiel's arms stay locked behind his back, and the line of his shoulders stays straight and taut, like a spring pulled tightly. It’s not a matter of _if_ he’s going to lunge at Dean; it’s a matter of _when_. 

He could defuse the situation, if he put his mind to it. He could soften his stance, say that he was just kidding, that the sight of the boy had just caught him off guard. He could curl his fingers into the front of Cas’ button-up and yank him forward, press their mouths together hard enough to bruise, dig his fingers into the wounds dotting Castiel’s arms until they oozed blood. He could drag Cas down to the rough concrete, just out of the boy’s sight, and they could fuck until Dean was just as marked up as Cas. 

That would work, for a while, maybe even for a few hours. But no matter how hard Dean let Cas fuck him, at the end of it, the boy, Sam’s goddamn doppelganger, would still be there, still tied to the pillar like meat on a roasting spit, and Cas will still want to rip the boy apart. 

And, if Dean ever wants to see Sam again, if he ever wants to look his brother in the eye and not feel absolute revulsion with himself, Dean can’t do that. 

“Sorry, Cas,” he says, planting his feet wide. “I'm not gonna kill Sam, not even some B-movie version of him.” He keeps his voice firm and even, leaves no room for compromise. He knows that there’s only two reactions that it could possibly elicit; either Cas will try and talk him into it using his knowledge of the goddamn infuriating itch crawling underneath Dean’s skin, or he’ll utterly snap. 

Dean isn’t surprised that it turns out to be option two. 

“You _ungrateful_ waste of breath,” he snarls, dropping out of parade rest and bringing his arms out in front of him. One of his hands is clutching the strange blade, more like a stake than a knife, that had really started this whole dance between them, back in the hotel room in a state Dean can no longer remember. His lips are peeled away from his teeth like a rabid animal, and his eyes are absolutely empty of everything but madness. 

Cas lunges forward. 

Dean yanks his switchblade from his pocket and meets him halfway. 

They collide. 

Dean ducks and drives the hard ridge of his shoulder into Cas’ firm stomach, knocking him off his feet. In the time it takes them to hit the ground, Cas scores his knife down the expanse of Dean’s back, easily gouging through both of his shirts and into the flesh of his back. 

The rest of Cas’ carefully curated image may have fallen apart months ago, but he hasn’t failed to keep up his knives. 

Blood flows down Dean’s back, soaking his shirts and the waistband of his jeans, but he barely notices, too intent on keeping Castiel’s blade from making a second mark. He jabs his own switchblade into the meat of Cas’ shoulder and tries to pin Cas’ other hand, the one holding the blade, against the ground, so he can rip the weapon free and toss it across the room. 

The attempt fails. Dean has forgotten how damn rabid Cas gets during a fight or a fuck. Spit flies from his mouth as he bucks his entire body off the ground, knocking Dean off-balance. Before he can re-adjust, Cas uses his other hand to rip the switchblade from his shoulder with a squelch. He stabs it into Dean’s shoulder, their wounds mirror images.

It’s by no means a fatal wound, but it _hurts_ like a fucking bitch. 

He leaves the handle jutting from his shoulder for the time being and goes back to trying to restrain Cas, but after mere moments, he’s thrown off, tossed to the unyielding concrete floor hard enough to make the blade shift in his shoulder. 

Cas leaps on top of him, laughing the entire time, spewing blood from between his teeth. He jabs at Dean with his blade a few times, but the wounds are no more than superficial and after a moment, he simply tosses it aside. It bounces across the floor with a rattle, out of Dean’s reach, although that doesn’t stop him from lunging after it anyways. 

Castiel’s fingers wrap tight around his throat and _squeeze_. Dean attempts to get Cas’ hands away from him; he scratches at the back of Cas’ hands, jabs his thumb _hard_ into the infected bite wound on his forearm, but the iron grip of Castiel’s fingers doesn’t waver. He just laughs harder, leans in closer, almost close enough to touch but not close enough for Dean’s teeth to sink into his flesh. 

“You brought this upon yourself, Dean,” Cas hisses, his eyes feral. “And when you stop breathing, I’m going to steal that precious car of yours and tear your brother open. After I tear _him_ open, I mean.” His head twists so that he can look at the boy, who is staring at them in absolute horror. 

It’s not much of an opening, but Dean’s vision is turning black, so he takes it. 

He curls his fingers tight into his palm and slams his fist into Castiel’s nose with every inch of strength that he has. The sickening _crunch_ as it shatters is possibly the most beautiful sound Dean has ever heard, because it means that Cas’ fingers finally loosen. It’s by a minute amount, but it allows a fraction of air to get to Dean’s starved lungs, and the black coronas floating around the edges of his vision start to back off. 

Cas laughs again, the sound loud and high enough to almost be called a howl. 

“Using my own moves against me,” he chuckles, sounding as delighted as a child at Christmas. Thick gouts of blood are pouring from his nose, over his upper lip, and into his own mouth, and when he spits, gobs fly across the room. “I’m-”

Before he can say anything else, Dean yanks the switchblade from his own shoulder and jams it into the soft, yielding flesh of Cas’ throat. 

Castiel’s words stop mid-sentence, and he freezes, mouth hanging open, fingers still locked around Dean’s neck. Before he can rally any further or squeeze any tighter, Dean pulls the blade back out. 

The gout of blood that spurts from the wound is like water from a firehose. 

_This_ is a fatal wound. 

Cas’ fingers drop away from his neck, and he tips forward until his forehead is resting against Dean. Within seconds, Dean is even more soaked in Cas’ blood; it covers his face in a sticky layer, drips down his neck, soaks into his shirt. He only has a few seconds left, and Dean can’t help but wonder how those last few seconds are going to play out. 

He isn’t disappointed. 

Castiel’s lips curl into a vicious grin, and his lips mouth a single word. 

While Dean can’t be certain, the word looks like _congratulations_. 

The death rattle comes seconds later. As soon as Dean hears it, he shoves Cas off him and sits up. The body slumps to the ground in a heap, the gout of blood having trickled to a thin stream. Cas’ blue eyes are open, turned up to the ceiling, empty of both rabid light and dark abyss.

Now, they’re just eyes. 

Dean catalogs his injuries, mentally preparing himself for the pain that’s going to flood his system from all directions when the endorphins and adrenaline disappear. The gouge on his back is long and deep, extends from nearly his shoulder to his hip, and it’s definitely going to require stitches, as will the knife wound in his shoulder. He’s going to have bruises in the shape of Castiel’s palms wrapped around his throat for days, and it’ll likely be some time before he’ll be able to talk or breathe without it hurting like a bitch. 

But, all things considered, he’s remarkably unscathed. He _survived_ Castiel. 

He thinks he might be the only person in the world able to say that. 

He gets to his feet slowly, still trying to catch his breath, which wheezes in and out of his swollen throat. Before he can even begin to think about the scene at hand, a muffled whimper draws his attention, and he spins back around to the boy, whose face is totally void of color. 

He’s a liability. He’s seen Cas’ face. He’s seen _Dean’s_ face, and although Dean knows that fear can do strange things to people’s memories, that isn’t a guarantee. For all Dean knows, as soon as the boy gets a chance, he’ll run off screaming, bring the cops down on the place before Dean clean things up or get rid of the body. 

But even that knowledge, the knowledge that this damn scrawny kid could be the thing that finally shatters his carefully cultivated double life, isn’t enough to make him kill him. 

“I’m sorry this happened to you, alright?” he says, his voice barely louder than a rasp. “This is what’s going to happen next. You listening to me?” The boy nods rapidly, tears leaking from the corner of his reddened eyes. “I’m gonna go take care of Cas, then I’m gonna come back here, untie you, and we’ll go for a drive. I’ll leave you somewhere nearby.” Panicked gibberish, muffled by the duct tape, starts spilling from the boy’s mouth, and Dean talks over him, pushing the volume of his voice to its absolute limit. “Jesus, calm down. If I was gonna kill you, I would have done it already. Alright? Just sit tight.” With that said, he turns back to the body sprawled across the concrete floor. 

_Castiel’s_ body. 

Now that some of the adrenaline has left Dean’s system, the full realization of what he’s done hits him. Castiel has been his constant shadow for months, always mere steps behind, stalking Dean like a predator in the night. Before that, he was, in some respects, Dean’s partner, the person Dean was willing to traverse state lines for at a moment’s notice. 

But those times are long gone, and while some part of Dean does regret what he’s done, there’s a considerably larger part that feels something entirely different. 

Relief. 

There’s no way he’s going to be able to clean up all of the mess splattered across the floor; there’s too much blood for that, and the spare tank of gas he has stashed in the Impala wouldn’t burn hot enough to consume the rest of it. 

But, at the very least, he can handle Cas. 

He yanks the mostly clean tarp out from underneath the boy’s sneakered feet, ignoring the terrified scream that issues from his mouth when Dean gets too close. He drags it across the room, wounds aching more and more with every movement he makes, and spreads it out like a sheet beside Cas’ prone body. From there, his actions are practiced, fluid; relying more on his right arm than his left, he rolls the body on the tarp, situating it in the exact middle. From there, he secures it with copious amounts of duct tape and the rope from his bag, until both ends are tightly closed up. 

It’s definitely not his best work; the tarp bulges with lumps, some of them caused by the inclusion of Castiel’s supplies, others by simple shoddy folding technique. But it does the trick; after looping and tying a piece of rope around Cas’ feet, Dean pulls the tarp outside, one agonizing step at a time. 

The moon is barely visible overhead, hidden behind a thick layer of cloud cover, as he haltingly drags the body across the parking lot. Sweat beads on his brow, and he’s pretty sure that gouge on his back is bleeding again, further soaking his already saturated clothes. 

He swerves around the nose of the Impala and drags the body to where the chain link fence ends. Beyond it are thick trees marching off in crooked lines into the darkness, and Dean steps into them, tarp rustling against the ground as he moves. 

Normally, he would keep moving for at least a mile, until he was no longer within shouting distance of the kill site. Before he set the body on fire, he would dig a hole for it first, one as tall as him. 

But if he does either of those things now, he's pretty sure that he won’t make it out of the hole himself. 

He has to settle for finding a sizable clearing a few yards into the trees. There’s enough loose twigs and debris in the area that he’s easily able to cover the whole length of the body. From there, it’s back to the Impala to grab the gasoline and a book of matches. 

He waits until the fire is going to strip off his shirt and jeans and add them to the pile, which is billowing thick, pungent clouds of black smoke. His entire torso, front and back, is covered in a layer of tacky blood, and the cold night air somehow feels simultaneously amazing and fucking awful on his various wounds.

For a few minutes, he thinks about sticking around until the fire completely dies, until Cas has burned down to nothing more than ashes. He can’t help but think that it’s something Cas would have done for him, had their positions been reversed. 

That just seems like more of a reason to walk away. That, and the boy is still in the warehouse, and while he hadn’t looked anywhere close to wriggling out of his bonds when Dean had dragged Cas out, that could have easily changed by now. 

So he forces himself to turn his back on the warmth and glow of the flames. As he strides back towards the Impala, he tries to tell himself that he doesn’t owe Castiel anything. Cas had never given him anything more than reason to look over his shoulder at every turn, reason to be wary of every shadow that flickered across the windows of their motel rooms. 

It isn’t true. All he has to do is think back to their last night together in Barstow, the hours _before_ they’d gone back to Castiel’s motel, to know that. 

But by the time he gets back to the trunk and starts pulling out some clean clothes, he’s almost managed to convince himself. 

Almost.

&.

Getting the boy into the Impala’s trunk is far more painless than Dean expects. He’s exhausted himself from hours of screaming and panic, and when Dean cuts away the ropes keeping him secured to the pillar, the only reaction he gets is a quiet whimper. The boy doesn’t protest when Dean secures his hands with duct tape, nor does he say anything when Dean carefully winds some around his head and over his eyes.

“That’s gonna hurt like a bitch to tear off,” he comments, giving the boy a push in the direction of the door. “Just do it fast and get it over with.”

The boy’s head lolls on his shoulder, in what is probably more a gesture of exhaustion than a nod, but Dean takes it anyway. 

He leaves Cas’ battery powered lamps behind, illuminating the spatters of blood drenching the floor. 

By the end of the night, they’ll probably be as dead as their owner. 

The boy has to curl up slightly to fit in the trunk, and in the overhead light, curled up on his side, he looks even more so like Sam, so much so that Dean finds it hard to breathe.

He slams the trunk closed before he can let his emotions overtake him. He can’t let them get to him, not yet. Not until he’s out of the town, preferably out of the _state_. 

He peels out of the parking lot, leaving Castiel’s sedan in the rearview mirror, and turns away from Bobby’s, towards the small town. In some ways, it’s the riskier of the two options; there’s a higher chance of running into people, maybe even coming across security cameras that could capture the Impala, but it also allows him to backtrack, get back to Bobby’s using a roundabout way that will make it harder for any cop to trace. 

He just hopes that he can stay conscious that long. 

Ten minutes down the road, he pulls into a driveway that winds away into the trees. He opens the trunk, and drags the boy out, biting back a groan when the stab wound in his shoulder re-opens. The boy sways on his feet, and Dean slaps the side of his face, not hard, but not gently either. 

“Don’t pass out yet,” Dean says. “I’m leaving you here. Soon as I’m gone, you can pull that duct tape off your mouth and holler for help. Alright?” The boy nods rapidly, and Dean claps a hand to his shoulder hard enough to make him take a few steps back before he heads back to the car. Before he slides into the driver’s seat, he has one final thought, one final thing to say to lessen the guilt weighing on his conscience. 

“Oh, and kid?” 

The boy’s head, still swathed in duct tape, swivels towards Dean. 

“Get yourself a knife. Learn how to use it. Someone ever tries to grab you again, you use it on them. Got it?” 

He doesn’t stick around for an answer. 

He floors it back to Bobby’s, music pouring from the speakers in an attempt to keep himself awake. It almost doesn’t work; by the time he pulls into the driveway, his head feels barely attached to his shoulders, like a balloon on the end of a very, very long string, and his whole body is covered in a cold sweat, soaking through his clothes along with blood from the still-oozing wounds. He manages to slam on the brakes inches away from Bobby’s tow truck, and when he stumbles out of the Impala, his knees buckle, and he almost spills to the ground. 

There’s roughly ten yards between him and the front door. 

It feels more like a thousand. 

He gets in the door just before his legs decide that they’re done working, and he collapses to Bobby’s cracked and pitted tiles, dropping like a deer felled by a hunter. Before he can shape his lips around Sam’s name, something, likely a beer bottle, shatters nearby. The sound is quickly followed by footsteps, and Sam appears in the doorway leading from the entrance to the kitchen, broad shoulders nearly filling the frame. 

“Dean?” he asks, dropping to his knees and gently lifting Dean’s head away from the ground. “What the hell happened to you?” 

“Had a bad date,” Dean manages to laugh, throat aching, mouth filled with the taste of blood. 

His eyes fall closed, and he doesn’t try to open them again.

&.

The next time they open on their own, dawn is just breaking through the thin curtains hanging over the living room windows.

He’s on his side on the couch, bare-chested but still in his jeans. There’s an old black and white movie, muted, playing on the television, one of the classic slapstick comedies by the look of things. At any other time, Dean is sure that Sam would be in full-on belly laughs over the thing, but his brother is utterly silent. 

They’re connected by a thin line of plastic tubing, jammed under the skin of Dean’s forearm and trailing to where Sam is sitting on the floor. The other end is in Sam’s arm, and as Dean watches, more blood sluggishly flows up the tube. For a moment, Dean thinks that Sam has fallen asleep, but before he can try to shake him awake, Sam’s head swivels towards him, and he shifts slightly, just enough to make the tubing tug unpleasantly at Dean’s arm. 

“Hey,” he says, clearing his throat. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I got hit by a fucking truck,” Dean answers truthfully. He doesn’t feel as lightheaded anymore, but his whole body feels battered and bruised, probably from rolling across rough concrete. His throat is dry, and his stomach is churning, although Dean can’t tell if it’s because he needs food or needs to throw up. 

“You don’t look much better,” Sam comments. Dean thinks about flipping him off, but he doesn’t have the energy for it. 

Besides, at least Sam is being honest. It’s more than Dean can say. More than he’s been able to say for decades. 

They stay in silence while Sam removes the tubing and cleans up the area. Dean tries to sit up, but it only makes his stomach churn more, so he flops right back down onto his side. When Sam comes back from tossing everything into the garbage, he settles down into one of Bobby’s old, raggedy armchairs and spins to face Dean. 

A single glance at his brother’s face tells Dean what Sam is about to ask. 

That gives him a few seconds to get his story straight. 

“Dean, what the hell happened to you?” he asks quietly. “Do you have any idea how much blood you lost?” 

“I told you,” Dean answers, shifting in an attempt to find a position that doesn’t make the gouge across his back throb in pain. “I had a bad date.” 

“I know you’re an asshole sometimes, but I don’t think most bad dates end like this,” Sam replies immediately. “Was it another hunter? Some kind of-”

“Sam, I’m not lying to you,” Dean snaps. “I went to a bar a few miles away, the one Bobby took us to last time we were up here. There was a guy sitting at the bar, givin’ me the eye, and I figured he was just looking for a little something, you know? So, I followed him outside, round the back. Soon as I got my back turned, the fucker jumped me with a knife.”

“So some random guy just happened to get the jump on you?” Sam replies incredulously. “Must have been one hell of a guy.” 

“Yeah,” Dean says, choking on a fake laugh and trying hard not to remember how Castiel’s eyes had gone empty, how he’d died with a smile on his face. “He was.”

&.

Dean doesn’t remember drifting off, but the next time he opens his eyes, full daylight is streaming through the curtains. The television is dark, and he can hear Sam’s heavy footsteps stomping around above him. The living room looks like it’s been tidied up, which is usually a sign that they’re hitting the road.

Dean truly hopes that’s the case. Usually, Bobby’s house is a safe haven, one of the few places on Earth that actually feels like some semblance of home, but for the foreseeable future, there’s too much danger involved with sticking around, too much chance that he’ll run into the boy in town. 

By the time Sam comes down the stairs, he's managed to get to his feet. There’s a spot of crimson that’s leaked through the bandage covering his shoulder, but the pain is muted, like he’s feeling it through a thick fog. 

“Did you give me painkillers?” he asks, voice raspy from the bruising and thirst. 

“Yeah,” Sam replies, dropping his duffel bag on the floor. “You don’t remember that?” 

“Don’t remember much of the last twelve hours.” He nods his chin towards Sam’s bag. “We packin’ up?” 

“Only if you want to. Found a possible case in Las Cruces. Figured we could get there in two days. Give you some time to get back on your feet. We can stick around though, if-”

“Hell, no,” Dean mutters, swaying slightly. “Doesn’t look like Bobby’s coming back for awhile. I’m ready to blow this state. Just need to eat something, and I’ll be ready to drive.” 

“There’s bacon and eggs on the stove, but you’re not driving anywhere,” Sam says. “Not for a few days, at least.” 

“Sam, _c’mon_. I’m-”

“If you say ‘I’m fine,’ I’m going to kill you myself,” Sam snaps. “You’re not fine. Your back is about eighty percent stitches. Don’t suppose you remember that either?” 

Dean thinks the wisest choice at this point is to keep his mouth shut, so he does exactly that and, eventually, Sam sighs and pushes his hair away from his face. 

“Besides, I already stole the keys for the Impala. We can leave whenever you’re ready.” 

Dean scarfs down the bacon and eggs as fast as his stomach will allow, trying all the while to resist the urge to reach into the fridge and crack open a beer. He thinks about hopping in the shower but isn’t quite awake enough to figure out the practicalities involved in keeping his various wounds dry, so he settles for quickly changing the bandage on his shoulder and sponging off everywhere else. 

Being in the passenger seat feels like slipping into clothing that’s just a little too small, but seeing as Sam has already planted himself behind the wheel by the time Dean makes it outside, he doesn’t have much of a choice. Once he’s inside, he realizes that Sam has spread a blanket out over the driver’s side, something faded and threadbare from one of Bobby’s closets. 

Dean wonder how much of his blood is stuck to the seat. 

He wonders if the trunk still smells like rank fear sweat. 

He wonders if animals have gotten to the remnants of Castiel’s bones, if the boy has gone to the police. 

Mainly though, he just sleeps.

&.

The case in Las Cruces turns out to be nothing more than a minor vampire infestation, nothing they can’t take care of even with Dean, as much as he doesn’t want to admit it, at less than full capacity.

That’s not the only thing he doesn’t want to admit to himself. 

Even before they’d arrived in Las Cruces, the urge to kill had come back. It’d crawled underneath his skin, like an itch trapped underneath a cast, impossible to ignore and only growing stronger with each day. 

Apparently, drenching himself in Castiel's blood hadn’t counted. 

Once they’re back to their cheap motel room after the hunt, Sam collapses on the bed, covered in grime and sweat. Dean is in much the same boat, but he isn’t ready to shower yet. He can barely sit still, can barely think straight. The only thoughts he can focus on are blood; more specifically, of having his hands _coated_ in it. 

“I think there’s ashes in my _ear_ ,” Sam groans with disgust. 

“You can take first shower,” Dean replies, swapping out his filthy flannel for a (slightly) cleaner one. “I’m gonna go grab some beer.” Sam glances at him and, for a moment, his eyes fill with worry and concern, so blindingly obvious that Dean almost snaps. Thankfully, it disappears as quickly as it appeared, and Sam simply nods. 

“Bring back some bottled water. The tap stuff tastes like metal.” 

“Part of the perks of the job,” Dean says, jauntily throwing a wave over his shoulder as he exits the motel room. 

He hopes that Sam doesn’t notice his shaking hands. 

It’s nearing midnight, but most of the bars in town are still in full swing. Dean sets out in the direction of the mountains and the outskirts of town, looking for somewhere a little rougher, less polished than the other places he passes, with their neon lights and their cocktail menus. 

After fifteen minutes of driving, he finds the perfect place. 

The parking lot is full of beat-up trucks and rust stained cars on their absolute last legs, some of which have out of state plates on them. Old beer signs flicker in the dirty windows, and even from inside the Impala, he can hear classic rock blasting from the interior. 

Even though he’s never been in this particular spot before, it’s a perfect hunting ground. It’s familiar. 

It almost feels like home. 

The place is crowded on the inside. Clumps of people are gathered around the televisions dotting the place, broadcasting a football game. The floor is sticky with spilled beer, and the sound of pool balls crashing together occasionally splits through the din. Dean lingers in the entrance for a few moments, scanning the room, looking for potential targets, someone alone and drunk that he could lure away. 

While he’s scanning the bar, his eyes lock with someone’s. 

The someone is a man, spun around on his stool to face the door, face covered with dark stubble, short hair a mess of spikes. Dean keeps the man’s gaze as a test, the itch increasing more and more with each unbroken second that passes. 

The man doesn’t look away. 

Dean takes it as a sign.

Up close, it’s obvious that the man is more than a little drunk. His breath is thick with the smell of booze, his blue eyes are glassy, and his face is the red of a perpetual drinker. He’s shorter than Dean, wearing clothes that haven’t seen a washing machine for some time, and while he gives his name as Travis, the way his eyes flick away from Dean’s when he says it indicates that it’s not the truth. 

It’s the same behavioral profile Dean has seen countless of times. 

It’s one that he knows exactly how to work with. 

It takes him one hour and four more drinks to get the man into the parking lot. When he asks Travis (or whatever his name is) about his car, Travis just shrugs and smiles, grin easily sliding onto his face.

“Walked here. Wanna give me a ride?” 

Dean smirks and tightens his fingers around the knife stashed in his pocket. It’s one of three secreted on his person. 

He’s learned from his mistakes. 

“Absolutely.”

&.

Travis’ place is in much need of repair. The concrete steps are crumbling into dust, the tiles inside are cracked and stained, and the back door hangs crooked on its hinges. Beyond the door, there’s a small, fenced-in yard, which contains nothing more than a pre-fab garden shed.

For Dean’s purposes, unless the shed is crammed full of crap, it’ll work just fine. 

When Travis turns his back after asking Dean if he wants another drink, Dean strikes. 

Incapacitating the man is almost laughably easy. Once he’s unconscious, Dean drags him out the back door and across the lawn to the shed. It’s secured with a padlock, but Dean finds the key for it in the pocket of Travis’ jeans, and there’s more than enough space inside to fit the both of them. 

He closes the door of the shed, hustles to the Impala, grabs his bag of supplies, and hustles back. Travis is stirring, but Dean has more than enough time to lay down a tarp and grab a roll of duct tape from the bag. 

When he slaps a piece across Travis’ mouth, the man fully wakes up. At first, he simply blinks, blearily peering around the room like someone awaking from a coma. However, by the time Dean starts laying out the rest of his tools, realization sets in, and Travis starts yelling, the sound muffled. 

Dean ignores him long enough to make his first selection from his toolkit. 

It’s been awhile since he used his handcuffs. 

“Travis,” he says, popping them open, “I want you to know that this wasn’t personal. You’re just an unlucky guy.” 

Travis’ yells turns into screams.

&.

The hours go by in a blur of blood.

By the time the sun begins to rise, the body lying at Dean’s feet is nothing more than a heap of beaten, bruised, destroyed flesh. Dean is covered in blood, _doused_ in it from head to toe. He’s fairly sure that he’s split at least some of the stitches on his back, and he’s not exactly sure how he’s going to come up with a convincing cover story for Sam or sneak back in without him noticing the blood, but for the time being, that’s the least of his concerns. 

There’d been a time once, before Castiel had ever come into his life, where Dean could kill someone and feel _immediate_ relief, like a weight had rolled off his shoulders. Once he’d gotten involved with Cas, that same relief had come only when they’d worked together. With Cas being dead, Dean had assumed that things would go back to how they used to be. He’d kill, and the itch would immediately ebb away, for a few weeks at least. 

But no. 

He’d done the worst things he could think of Travis, utilized every single item in his toolkit, brought him to the edge of death again and again before he finally, mercifully, delivered the final slice. 

But he doesn't feel a singular ounce of relief from the itch burning underneath his skin. 

He doesn’t know if he’ll ever feel relief again. 

All he knows is that, over a thousand miles away, what remains of Castiel’s body is returning to the earth, and Dean _misses_ him. 

**Author's Note:**

> I've had those last lines written for three years now. this is always how the series was going to end. 
> 
> as always, I can be found on [tumblr.](http://banshee-cheekbones.tumblr.com/) :)


End file.
